Superhero
by Beaubier
Summary: Northstar and Nightcrawler are sent off to contain a small “disturbance” created by a few mutant teens, and Jean-Paul finds himself confronting some old demons. Just me, paying my respects. He is, after all, more than just grumpy, gay, posh Northstar.
1. Introduction: Superhero

TITLE:  Superhero  
AUTHOR: Beaubier  
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: xbeaubier@hotmail.com  
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Ask and ye shall receive.  
CATEGORY: Drama/Angst  
RATINGS/WARNINGS:  Some nasty language, mild violence.  
SUMMARY: Northstar has been at Xavier's for awhile now, and he's starting to feel more comfortable in his role with the X-men. He and Nightcrawler are sent off to contain a small "disturbance" created by a few mutant teens in West Virginia, and he finds himself coming face to face with a few old demons.   
DISCLAIMER: The X-men are clearly, not mine. Lucky for them. The original character, Bullet Time, is also not mine, but a creation of a good friend of mine who as kindly lent him to me. Thanks, Geoff.   
NOTES: My sincerest thank**s **to **Sue Penkivech**, for picking up on my not-so-subtle request for a beta reader on this, my first go at a serious fic. Without her, this would make even less sense. (if you haven't read her "Just a couple of kids, after all," you should. It's brilliant.) This is my attempt to present Northstar as the hero I think he is, and to explain why I think he deserves the adulation. As formerly noted, the character Bullet Time belongs to my friend **Geoff**, and Jake is a mutant I invented, for the purposes of this story. I do not speak French, let alone **Québécois**, so feel free to correct, and/or add to anything I've tried to throw in to add a little credibility to his roots. The lyrics are all from songs by the **Manic Street Preachers. Because they produce the best lyrics. Hands down. No contest. This will be a few chapters, likely not more than five or six, however.    
  
**

Introduction: Superhero

_one-__thousand marlboro deaths ignored every day, and who gives a shit about sexuality. gold against the soul, working class clichés start here, either cloth caps or smack victims. gold destroyed, destroyed the soul, destroyed the soul._

-gold against the soul

                _Today, I went out._

_                Just to get away. Out of the mansion, away from the school._

_                I've been here awhile now. At times, I admit, I'm not entirely certain why. Do I think I'm so great a teacher, that these children need me? Do I think the X-men could not endure without me?  _

_                No. Many of them would believe these are my reasons. But some days, I know. These reasons, they could not be further from the truth. _

_                The truth is, I need the X-men._

_                Yes, after all this time, I am one of them. After those years with Department H, hating and loving my superhero status, I was enjoying being a civilian when Xavier approached me. In a way. I'd settled down. Wrote a book. Invested. Read the Wall Street Journal. They were hard, those years with Alpha Flight. So many memories, so few of them good. If not for them, I would not have known my sister. I would not have this sense of responsibility. I would not care for anyone but myself. All I would have would be memories of a young man who hid from himself in __France__. Who joined a radical separatist group, only to have his youthful ideals crushed by terrorism. Who had a few gold medals, medals that mean nothing._

_                I suppose it's easy for me to say that now, now that they've been taken from me. But what good are gold medals? Years ago, I thought they were everything. _

_                But I was younger then. And I didn't understand._

_                Which is why it's ironic that I need the children. Because, _mes amis,_ they do understand._

_                The few times in my life when I have seen what's really mattered, it's been thanks to them. Not these particular children, perhaps, but always because of children. Or being child-like myself. _

_                Child-like enough to want to pay for my sins with the FLQ by doing my duty with Department H. Child-like enough to rejoice in the knowledge that I had a sister. Child-like enough to hang on to Jeanne-Marie's hand in a dark tunnel, afraid and uncertain, tormented by some demi-god. She was all I had then. Maybe she still is. _

_                Maybe she still is. A thought that occurs to me daily. And certainly doesn't keep the hole in me from getting larger each time it occurs. The cavernous, empty thing in my chest, that always seems most threatening when I realize how alone I am._

_                But they, the others, have done even more to make me understand. Little Joanne. The fragility of a small child, her utter dependence upon a fully grown human to nurture her, the way her small eyes latched on to my face with something I could have sworn was recognition. Four months old. That's as far as she made it, my daughter. The daughter I found, alone in the streets. HIV positive. Her mother didn't care. _

_                But I did. _

_                Trust. The way she wrapped her tiny hand around my finger. The warmth of her in one arm as I held her in the night. _

_                At times like those, the hole in me, it was not so big. I did not feel as if it would swallow me._

_                It came for her, of course. I'd known it would, from the beginning. Full blown AIDS. She was so small, so defenseless. Depending on me for her well-being. But no superhero could save her from the fate she was born to. _

_                I am not a great believer in fate, nor in any great cosmic truth. But sometimes, we are not given a choice. My daughter… she never had the choice._

_                And she taught me what was important._

_                I was Northstar, the superhero. And that didn't save her. But  I could stand up and show the world what she'd given to me. What she'd made me understand._

_                Peter. I won't forget his name, his face, the sound of his voice as he flew with me. Young, innocent. But just like Joanne, his youth had not allowed him to escape the evils of the world. He did not love me, did not see me as his savior. Not at first. There was no immediate trust, not as there is with a baby. _

_                But he grew to understand me, in our short time together. And he accepted me. Trust._

_                And for the second time, I knew what was important. He held my hand, looked to me for the answer. For the second time, I wished I could trade my life for a child's. This child, he was not so naïve. He knew it was the end. _

_                Being a superhero, I couldn't save him from his fate either. But I could stay with him, and help him accept it._

_                I don't know how it sounds, when I say this, but it is the truth. Those children, the children I see every day. They are the ones who've saved me. Without them, I would still be clinging to some useless piece of metal on a string._

_                And that's what I thought of today, when I went out._


	2. Part 1: Misunderstood

Part 1: Misunderstood

_the__ world is full of refugees, just like you and just like me, but as people we have a choice, to end the void with all its force. so don't forget or don't pretend it's all the same now in the end. it was said in a different life, destroys my days and haunts my nights. in the beginning… when we  were winning… when our smiles were genuine. _

-the everlasting

                The problem with sparring with a teleporter, Jean-Paul Beaubier thought to himself as he spun, was that they were so damn hard to catch.

                Something blue, a tail, whisked in front of his face, and he immediately applied the proper amount of thrust, sending himself levitating just enough to miss Nightcrawler's sudden sweep from behind. With supersonic speed, he flipped himself feet-over head, and landed behind the team leader lightly, catching him with a quick, light jab to the ribs as he stood. 

                Kurt spun quickly, however, reached out to catch Jean-Paul's fist in mid air despite the slight "uff" sound that issued forth from blue lips. He missed, however, neglecting to factor in the other's super-speed ability as he retracted his arm and ducked into a backwards sweep of his own. The sweep he attempted to execute with something closer to normal speed, but the teleporter sprung up and back flipped out of his immediate reach with his usual catlike grace. 

                Northstar stood now, smiling with the pleasant feeling of exertion taking over his body. The lactic acid that came with exercise had finally begun to work its way through his muscles, and he could not think of many feelings more exhilarating. It was almost like…

                Skiing. 

                Not quite as good as sex, after all. But still, it would do for now. Certainly did help with the pent-up frustration, anyhow.

                "A point to you,  Monsieur Beaubier," His German teammate made a short, clever bow to him.

                Jean-Paul felt himself smiling. "That leaves us even, Herr Wagner?"

                "It does!" Kurt agreed, stepping off the mat now into a patch of sunlight splayed across the gym floor and grabbing a towel from the wall. "A good place to end the day's practice, perhaps?"

                A completely rhetorical question. Obviously, his mind was made up. And, to be honest, Northstar was not opposed to the suggestion. The sunlight patch had grown long and tall since they'd first began their little game, and he had to admit, it had done the trick. He was in an undeniably better mood now than he had been then. "So it would seem," he assented, moving with his own dignified grace to find a towel for himself. 

                "Ach, it feels good to have a match now and then, just a little friendly sparring," The other man mused, from under the white towel he had thrown over his sweat-moistened head. All that was evident of his face was his beguilingly demonic grin, complete with those fangs. 

                So out of place on such a charmer, Jean-Paul thought to himself. An unlikely charmer, covered in blue fur, with the yellow eyes of a demon. He liked the man, though he had admittedly spent little time with him since joining the team. At least, not one on one. Of course, he had spent little time with anyone one on one since he'd moved into the mansion. And mostly due to his own stand-offish nature. But Kurt seemed to be one of the few men in the mansion who treated him no differently for his sexual orientation. As if it didn't occur to him at all that his sparring partner was, in fact, a gay man.

                Jean-Paul understood how some of the others might have a difficult time adjusting. Despite the obvious ridiculousness of it, he knew it could be quite threatening to a sheltered, hetero man to be confronted with someone who seemed to flip his rules for life on their head. It was immature, certainly. It was ridiculous to see someone as a category. Mutant. White. Homosexual. Elf-eared. He was more than any of those things, the same as they were. But then, holding others to his own standards had never proven an effective way to move through life. It left him disappointed all too often.

                And, of course, there was also the fact that Kurt had conveniently neglected to bring up that the first time Alpha Flight met the X-men, Northstar had been the one to take down Nightcrawler. 

                That aside, he had enjoyed this workout, and Kurt's company, immensely this afternoon. "Indeed. We should do it more often."

                "Agreed," Nightcrawler took the towel from his head and threw it over his shoulder, stretching his compact, muscled form out in the sunlight, reminding his teammate even more of a cat with the gesture. "Ahhh, perhaps a shower and then something to eat. Dinner should be on the table soon, nein?"

                Silently, Northstar nodded his agreement, and moved toward the door, draping his own towel about his neck lightly. He was, and always had been, a natural athlete. No matter what the Olympic committee said, he knew that much about himself. These sort of things, physical exertion, this was his bread and butter. 

                He was surprised to see Kurt at his side as he entered the hallway. "Do you like it here?" The man asked him, still smiling.

                It amazed Northstar to no end how a man who had been through all the trials Kurt Wagner had, who had seen the things he'd seen, lived the life he'd lived, could perpetually keep rising to the top. Smiling. "I do," he admitted. He stopped himself for a moment, feeling a strange urge to elaborate come over him. But the face of his companion held a definite expression of expectancy on it, as if that were the very thing he was waiting for, so in the end, he let it go. "I like teaching, and I like what it is the X-men are devoted to. It is the best place for me, at the moment, I believe."

                "Forgive me if I am putting my nose where it isn't wanted," his companion sounded apologetic, "but you often seem… removed. It is not my business, of course, and I suppose I should keep my prehensile tail out of your way. But it is difficult not to notice."

                He wasn't sure what to say to that. A few sharp comebacks danced over the tip of his tongue, but he bit them all back instantly.  He had never been the most friendly of men, he knew. In fact, he was a trial to live with, he was certain of it. But this man, his leader now, a good man, did not deserve to receive a lashing from his infamous forked tongue for simply being concerned about him. 

                So, surprising even himself, he decided to be honest. "Sometimes, I wonder what I'm doing here. I don't feel quite as much like a superhero as I should, perhaps. And the team… we are not exactly close friends, most of us. But I know this is my place. I've had some good teachers, and I know what it is I need to do."

                "I would like to meet your teachers, someday," Kurt mused quietly, obviously understanding the need to feel one's place in the world better than most.

                "I wish you could," was the only reply he had to give.

                "Hey, what are you so pissed off about?"

                Jean-Paul looked up from his mashed potatoes to see the mocking countenance of Robert Drake, Iceman, cocking an eyebrow down at him. And he felt that black hole inside him threatening to swallow, once again. 

                He had purposely come here, to the library, to avoid any contact with his teammates. He was feeling favorably disposed toward them at the moment, true, but he knew all too well how easily they could crush that for him with a few well placed words. 

                Or, for that matter, how easily he could crush it.

                "Pissed off? Who informed you that I was pissed off?" He asked, returning to the act he had been putting on previously. Pretending to read a book while he ate. 

                "Call it a hunch," Bobby planted himself on the desk, at a safe distance, of course, from the other man. He didn't pretend Jean-Paul didn't exist, no. Perhaps it was only because he'd saved him. Once. They had not started off their association here as the best of friends…

                And of course, he could not know how it made his teammate feel. To have him so near. To want to look him in the eye, but to be afraid to. To be afraid that it would show. Jean-Paul Beaubier was rarely afraid of anything. And when he was, it made him angry. "Can I help you with something, Iceman?"

                "Just saying a friendly hello is all, _Northstar." Bobby actually sounded… pouty._

                He glanced back up at him, to catch a glimpse of the way he stuck his lower lip out just a bit, the way his brown hair fell into his eyes just so. 

                And he felt horrible. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I was just trying to concentrate," he lied.

                The smaller man shrugged, "Whatever. I guess it's tough being the famous Jean-Paul Beaubier, droves of maddened fans beating a path to your door night and day. Never a moment's rest."

                A flash of anger, and he turned to face Iceman head on, about to lash out with his usual righteous fury. 

                But he stopped, when he saw the playful grin on Bobby's face, and the way he held his hands up, as if Jean-Paul would start breathing fire at any moment. "Whooo, you're easy to wind up," he chuckled. "Just messing with you, chill out." A flash of the boyish Bobby Drake so many people wanted to believe this man was all the time. 

                "Feeling better?" the anger melted away quickly. Too quickly. He fought an urge to smile.

                Bobby shrugged, "I guess. But we never did have that dinner, or whatever. Warren and I were going to go have a few drinks, talk about old times. Thought I could at least buy you a beer."

                Going to a bar with Iceman and Archangel, old friends from the beginning of time. It was not all that long ago that this man had threatened his life, in fact, if he were to let anything happen to Warren Worthington.

                He somehow felt it would be one of those occasions when three was, most definitely, a crowd. "Perhaps I should let you two catch up."

                Bobby's smooth brow furrowed at that, and he bit his lip. He looked young, yes, but not like a boy. Thoughtful. Intelligent. A man who's life had been riddled with the same pressures and fears as Jean-Paul's own, and from a much younger age. Bobby was raised to be a superhero. And it showed in the way he held his shoulders back. The way his eyes frosted over internally, when he began to think. "Yeah, alright. I guess. Look, I'm sorry if I've been a dick, or whatever. I've just been… I didn't mean… Did I say thank you?"

                Jean-Paul nodded, even though he wasn't even sure himself. "Nothing to thank me for. It's something any of us would do for another." Here it was. The moment when he could say something, make some sort of contact. Get closer.

                But did he really want to? Why put himself through that, when he knew this was something he would never have?

                It was damned inconvenient, he decided, suddenly being attracted to a straight man. It was a pitfall he'd managed to avoid his entire life, for the most part. Until now.

                "Yeah, ok," Bobby stood now, no longer grinning, completely back to the proverbial little black rain cloud he'd been for weeks now. 

                "Some other time," Jean-Paul suggested, trying not to sound hopeful. 

                "Definitely," his teammate nodded. "I guess I'll see you around then, huh?"

                For a moment, he wished he had Nightcrawler's ability to banter. To draw the man into a conversation. Something about the look on his face, the way he was hesitating. It was almost as if he wanted to talk, somehow. 

                But then, he knew it was safer not to. "Try not to get into any trouble. I believe you've already used your get out of jail free card for jealous husbands, non?"

                A smile now, but it was more sad than anything else, "Warren will keep me straight, don't worry."

                The blackness in his chest suddenly began to ache.

                Bamf! 

                And Nightcrawler was standing beside Bobby. "_Guten__ Abend," he grinned at them._

                "Hey Kurt," Bobby gave the man a pat on the back, "fancy meeting you here."

                Nightcrawler only raised one eyebrow at him, and then looked back to where Jean-Paul sat, pretending to eat his dinner. "Herr Professor has sent for us, Northstar."

                Well, he thought to himself, strapping into the pilot's seat, at least he'd managed to get that shower he'd wanted after his workout with Kurt, even if dinner hadn't gone exactly as planned..

                Unidentified mutant activity, somewhere in West Virginia. Wherever the hell that was. And they were causing quite a disturbance, apparently. Some sort of projective empath, a charmer, and another with short range control over the speed of his motion.

                In other words, a mutant with some version of his own powers. He could move fast, too fast for any of the others to contain. Only Northstar could catch him.

                Kurt strapped himself into the co-pilot's seat, still smiling, even though he couldn't have had more than the quick bite to eat he himself had managed to grab before the summons from the Professor. "Ready to go?"

                Jean-Paul nodded his assent, silently thankful that Kurt had been chosen for the mission instead of one of the others. He did not feel as if the pressure to converse jovially would sit particularly well on him at this moment in time. The shower had relaxed his tensed muscles considerably, but the short, tense conversation with Bobby had brought back some of the pressure. It was a good way to feel, for a mission. Alert, but not jumpy. But he felt that the bumbling "chit-chat" of his American teammates would have something of a disastrous effect on the rare balance of it.

                In the air, things moving smoothly along, he looked over at the demonic co-pilot. He was not smiling anymore. In fact, he seemed not to realize where he was at all. His thoughts seemed to be bent inward entirely, and his glowing yellow eyes had a strangely glazed look to them. He looked comfortable, his hands hanging limply off the arm rests, chest moving evenly up and down with almost sleep like regularity under the form-fitting costume. 

                He had a strange sort of beauty, really. Half swashbuckler, half priest. Half savior, half demon. 

                "What about you, Nightcrawler?" He heard himself ask, suddenly.

                Kurt looked at him now, eyes focusing clearly on his face in the glow of the cockpit. 

                "Are you happy here?" He elaborated, still uncertain as to what compelled him to ask the question at all. 

                In an almost boyish gesture, the other man raised one hand to his head, and scratched at it thoughtfully, displacing some of the dark mop there. "Yes," came the reply after a moment, "I believe I am happy here, doing this."

                Jean-Paul turned back to his controls, checking a few things absentmindedly, suddenly almost sorry he had interrupted the man's meditations. "You didn't look happy, for a moment. You smile often."

                "I suppose," the other gave a slight shrug, "that even I cannot smile all the time. Too much thought, it is bad for one's happiness. I was thinking of my childhood."

                Childhood. As far as he could remember, Northstar really hadn't had much of one. Orphaned twice, finally taken in by Belmonde… so long ago. "You were in the circus?"

                "Ja," the other answered, now smiling again, "as were you, I believe. In France? We share some similarities."

                Funny thing to say, he thought to himself. A tall, athletic French Canadian ex-medallist. A fuzzy, blue elf of an ex-priest. "I suppose everyone does, in the end."

                "Sometimes, I wish things could be the way they were."

                A vague statement, to say the least. But somehow, he thought he understood. "Sometimes, I feel the same," Jean-Paul whispered. 

                If Kurt heard him, he gave no sign. "I was accepted there. My strange appearance, it didn't matter. It was a clever costume, something of interest. But being accepted for the truth, by those who know what I really am, that is something I would never wish away. I am not ungrateful. I just remember a time when the world was black and white, when my path was clear."

                Something in him was touched by how personal the things Kurt was saying just then were. It displayed quite a measure of trust in him. And Jean-Paul could appreciate that.

                "Those days are far away, in my memories," he made himself reply. "But I have been thinking about it a lot lately. I'm not always spending my hours before sleep coming up with ways to insult Americans, you know."

                A snide remark. He couldn't help himself. It was getting too close in here. Human claustrophobia. 

                His companion only smiled, this time without the fangs, "No, I did not think so, _mein_ freund_."_

                It didn't need to go any further, of course. Some things, Jean-Paul had always thought, didn't really need to be said. Saying them would only cheapen the effect. Words rarely captured emotion to his satisfaction.

                If he let himself be honest, he liked it. The feeling that he might be understood. Something in him had long been begging for it. Of course, every fiber in his being rebelled against that word. Beg. He had been orphaned, deserted, lied to, crushed, and injured more times than he cared to remember. But he had never begged. And he never would.

                But for just a moment, the hole in him seemed less threatening. _Mein__ freund. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he was._


	3. Interlude: Black

Interlude: Black

_you__ have broken through my armor. and i don't have an answer, i love you all the same. i paint the things i want to see. but it don't come easy, i love you all the same. but you stole the sun from my heart. you stole the sun from my heart._

-you stole the sun from my heart

_._

                _At times, it's depressing to think of the number of friends you have. Real, true friends. Not acquaintances. Not the people you go to have a drink with after a long day of work. Not the salesman  at the Banana Republic who hit on you when you were spending a fortune in his store. No, I mean friends._

_                I can count mine on one hand. Less than that, really._

_                Please, don't mistake my saying that for something it isn't. I do not pity myself, nor do I feel as if I am the only one in this situation. On the contrary, I am thankful that I have the wit to notice and appreciate the people who truly matter, and separate them from those who would only let me down, in the end. But not everyone can be Kurt Wagner, trusted and loved by all who come into contact with him. Some of us do not have the temperament to deal with bullshit on a grand scale, and come out of it laughing. Certainly, we are lucky that some exist who do. Or the world would be a very dark  place. _

_                But there are so few of them, who can inspire that trust. Who are worth trusting. And that, at times, is what is depressing._

_                I'd like to think that I don't need anyone. But if that were true, I would never have spent those years in Alpha Flight, to be at Jeanne-Marie's side. I would never have forgiven her for distancing herself from me, genetically altering herself so that she was no longer my sister, the counterpart to myself and my powers. Certainly, I was the one who left the team, who put up a fight, who incited her anger with my foolish accusations. But she was the one who separated us, in a very real way. I would never have searched her out, kept her from murdering Wild Child. I would never have found her in that horrible school, that place where they tortured her through her childhood, and gotten her the help she needed. _

_                Or tried to, at least._

_                And I never would have known what it was like, to have someone willing to give everything up for me. To have her expend the entirety of her powers, of her beautiful healing light, to restore my life, my abilities. I never would have known what it was to care for someone's life, for their well-being, more than my own, to do the same for her. I never would have met the people, the children, who have taught me so much._

_                I would be a very different man. Would I be as bitter? Perhaps. Would I be shallow? _Absolutment_.__ Would I be alone, as I am now? _

_                Even more so._

_                But sometimes, alone is not so bad. Alone is better than with the wrong person. Having  few friends, it's not so bad either. It's better than being alone in a sea of faces that were supposed to make the emptiness disappear, but fail miserably._

_                Our expectations are what kill our relationships. Not the failings of the people we enter into them with._

_                Sometimes, yes, it becomes more difficult. The days where I want nothing more than to allow someone in. It's never just _someone_, of course. It's always a particular person. Those who long for companionship without a face, just companionship, I will never understand. _

_                Yet, I know I am a hypocrite when I say this. Because there is, in each of us, some kind of fundamental need to know that we are understood. I would not have written my book, if it weren't true of me. If I hadn't needed people to know. _

_                But there comes a time when you can do nothing but sit back, look around, and accept what it is you have. _

_                And that is when you grow up, and stop expecting a fairy tale to come true. And if it means you have to come to terms with the blackness inside of you, that's what you must do._

_                At least, that's what I get the feeling I'll have to do, when I finally grow up._


	4. Part 2: Bullet

Part 2: Bullet

_little baby nothing, sexually free, made up to break up. assassinated beauty. moths broken up, quenched at last. the vermin allowed a thought to pass them by. you are pure, you are snow. we are useless sluts that they mould. rock and roll is our epiphany. culture, alienation, boredom, and despair._

-little baby nothing

                This was hardly the sort of "emergency" he'd expected, when the Professor had sent them out in the jet. They sat above the crowd of teenagers, sitting in one dismal lump on the ground before the two boys who were obviously the mutants in question. The warehouse was, he noted, at least not one of those stereotypical abandoned jobs from bad American cop shows. It was well taken care of, obviously a gathering place for the local teens that was sanctioned by the adult population of the town. The walls were painted in long murals, cartoon skateboarders executing impossible jumps. The ground was strewn about with various obstacles, a large half pipe, and skating paraphernalia of all shapes and sizes from the kids hanging around. But the lights were low, in the after-hours, and it was clear that this was no skating competition. 

                These kids were not here because they wanted to be. At least, not anymore.

                "What's happening here?" He muttered, mildly confused, and more than a little irritated. He didn't see any guns, anything that the two in the middle would be holding the group hostage with, and he couldn't imagine that what the taller boy, the one in the ragged clothing, was saying was captivating enough to keep them all sitting there. 

                Or the police sitting outside. 

                "The one in the black, he is the empath," Kurt replied. "He must be holding them there somehow, using his mind."

                Right.

                Years doing this good-guy act, and he couldn't figure that much out. Fucking brilliant, Jean-Paul. _Quel niaiseux. "Your call. You could be down there with the inhibitor, get those kids out of here, and we could be in the jet in fifteen minutes."_

                Kurt shook his head. "Something isn't right."

                He had not been with them long, certainly. But he knew well enough to trust the man's judgment. 

                "But there is nothing else for it," he sighed after a few moments, turning to look him in the eye now. "See you down there?"

                Northstar nodded, and jumped feet-first through the skylight.

                Moments later, in a sickening wave of utter despair, he landed lightly on his feet behind the two teenagers, and fell to his knees. He could hardly see, the pain was so strong. No, not pain. Fear. Sickness. A lack of anything at all resembling hope. No light. Just darkness. 

                Faces flew by him, faces of people he'd known, lost, been betrayed by. Faces of the people he couldn't save. Faces of the family he'd never known. 

                He looked up, and saw something familiar through the black haze of his nightmare. Kurt Wagner. Someone was looking down at him now, they'd seen him. Two shadowy figures. Young. Kurt was standing now, reaching up as if in slow motion, something metal glinting in his hands.

                He cursed aloud. The empath. He struggled to his feet, pushing away the faces, trying to build up his mental blocks. A lifetime of dealing with telepaths, mutants that wanted to fuck with his head. He should have been ready. He should have known. 

                By the time the blocks were in place, however, the pain had suddenly ended. And he was standing, watching Kurt snap the inhibitor collar into place on a skinny blonde teenager in jeans much too large for him.

                "No!" A shout to his left now, "Jake, no!"

                A blur of movement, and the other young mutant was standing between Northstar and his teammate. Too fast. 

                But not too fast for him. 

                He reached out, consciously accelerating his motion to superhuman speeds, and took the boy by the arm, jerking him back and throwing him out of the way. Hard enough to send him into the half pipe. Not hard enough to hurt him badly.

                Nightcrawler nodded as he bound the other youth's hands, and Northstar momentarily turned his attention to the crowd of teenagers who were now looking at the scene unfolding before them with expressions ranging from anger to fear to extreme pain. Those were the ones who had not been able to shake off the effects of the empath's projection. One of the boys stood, and fell backwards against the wall almost immediately. It was clear that he'd been beaten badly, his eye was blackened and he had a rip in his shirt that displayed a bleeding scrape prominently. A few of the other boys, all of them larger, had similar wounds, and seemed similarly surprised to find themselves in their respective states of disrepair. 

                _Marde,_ he thought, still mildly disoriented from the sheer power of the big-pants empath's effect on him. What in the name of god had happened here?

                He turned his attention back to the other boy, the taller, more wiry mutant he had torn off of Kurt, just in time to catch a glimpse of him disappearing again. Too fast.

                "He's gone," he said, already moving in the direction he'd seen the boy take off. 

                "I'll handle this. Bring him back," he heard, as he launched himself into the air and back out the skylight, into the cold moonlit night.

                He was rather too preoccupied with his quarry to admire the breathtaking way the moon reflected off the Ohio river, or the quaint, Mark-Twain-ish quality of the small river town itself. But he had spotted the boy almost the moment he'd left the warehouse's walls, and was having no trouble keeping track of him. 

                His accelerated movements were confined to small spurts of time, between one and two seconds, never more than that, and it seemed to take time for him to recharge enough energy to start up again. There was something jerky about his movements each time he slowed down. Northstar's eyes were not so sharp as to see what it was, but he assumed that soon enough, he'd see enough of the boy to last a lifetime.

                And then, the little bastard ran into a patch of trees on the riverbank.

                He had been known to play a game or two in his time. But none of them involved boys nearly half his age, or anything to the effect of hide-and-seek. 

                Already, the boy was trying his patience. 

                And just what the hell had been going on in that skate park?

                He landed just near the tree line, and proceeded, slowly, to walk into the mini-forest there by the river. No sounds. Just the rushing of the river a few yards away, the sound of an owl somewhere nearby, hunting. 

                From a bad American cop show to a bad American horror film. Lovely.

                And he'd been having such a nice day, really.

                Ah, but he couldn't move without being seen, and Northstar knew he was getting closer. He could hear him shifting now, from one foot to the other. Breathing heavily, as if he'd been injured. That would certainly explain the strange movement pattern when the boy slowed down, if it were true. 

                He padded his way over the hard packed ground, avoiding the odd beer bottle or snuff can that littered the bare earth under the trees. Obviously, a hang out for the unsavory children of the town. He tried not to breathe too deeply—the scent of pine was barely enough to cover the smell of sulfur and various pollutants coming from the factory just down the river, let alone the smell of an old college dorm party.

                Or, he mused, of a rich athlete's hotel room the morning after.

                The boy was just on the other side of the tree now, waiting. He could see his fingers, furtively twitching against the bark of the oak he'd attached himself to. Breathing. Scared.

                Northstar stopped. He wasn't here to scare the child, after all. "Come out," he said quietly. "I'm not here to hurt you."

                No reply. Just breathing. 

                "Please," he asked again, calmly. "No one will hurt you. I just need to talk to you."

                A pause. Then, a surprisingly low voice came from behind the tree. "Who the fuck are you man?"

                Charming.

                "My name is Northstar," he took a step back this time.

                "Northstar," a derisive snort. "The fuck kinda name is that?"

                He smiled, in spite of himself. "A code name, I suppose."

                "What d'you want?"

                "I told you, I just need to talk to you."

                "Yeah, that's why your freaky friend collared Jake." And then, he made his move. 

                He was fast. He tried to run further away, down the riverbank. Had he been able to keep his pace up, he would have stood a chance. But he stopped, now in a small clearing, and stood with his hands on his knees, panting. 

                Behind him now, Northstar still kept his distance. "You can't outrun me. Why not talk to me?"

                "Who the fuck _are_ you?"

                "I told you, my name is Northstar. Who the fuck are _you?" Perhaps if he spoke to the boy in his own tongue…_

                The boy stood upright, and turned to face him. "Name is Bullet Time."

                Now, he understood.

                He was tall, taller than Jean-Paul at a good six feet, strong but thin, a lanky teenage frame. His clothes hung off him, almost rags, his head was clean shaven, his eyes burned bright, even with only moonlight to reflect. A straight, angular face, that might have been handsome once. 

                But he was covered in linear patterned burns, some a virulent red, some a faded purple, and some just white shining scars. None that did not look horribly painful, however. They ran across his cheeks, over his neck. On his muscled forearms and evident through the fast growing hole in the thigh of his threadbare jeans. 

                Friction burns. From the hyper-speed movement. 

                The boy stood, panting at him. 

                And Jean-Paul stared at him, knowing his face was a hardened mask. But he felt his heart break, inside. 

                That could be him.

                "Are you ready to talk?" was all he said, knowing damn well that no amount of sympathy would soften the boy to him, at this point. It would only make what had to be done harder for the kid. 

                By way of reply, the boy came at him with a swift jab to the right, which he dodged quickly, but not without some effort. The teen was easily as fast as he, the only advantage he had was that he had the endurance. And his body avoided harm because the same ability that allowed him to accelerate himself at a given rate also allowed his cells, the very molecules in them, to strengthen their bonds, become more durable. 

                And he couldn't fight this boy. Couldn't cause him more pain. 

                Another moment's breathing, and he tried again, this time connecting with Northstar's chest once, just where his shoulder jointed with his collar bone. But he only got one hit in. Northstar simultaneously reached out, grabbed the boy by the arm, twisted him around, and grabbed for the other one, making use of the boy's necessary downtime. 

                More heavy breaths. Northstar didn't let up, held his wrists tight behind his back. But he didn't hold him too tightly either. "_Now, will you talk to me?"_

                "Doesn't look like I have much of a…" breath, "fuckin' choice, does it?"

                "No," he replied seriously, "you don't. I meant what I said, I don't want to hurt you. Though you certainly made it a point to hurt me." It actually did sting a bit, where the wiry teen had landed a hit on him. Wouldn't bruise, of course, but still. Impressive.

                "How the fuck do you move like that?"

                "How is it that you cannot construct a sentence without the word "fuck" in it?"

                "Think you're pretty goddamn funny don't you? What's with the costume? You a superhero?" Another derisive snort.

                Northstar laughed, this time. Here he was, in a dirty party spot, down by the river, in a run down West Virginia river town, holding a disadvantaged teenage mutant hostage. "No. I'm definitely not much of a superhero, right now."

                A grunt, pained this time, escaped the boys lips. 

                He'd been twisting, trying to break free. Jean-Paul leaned down, examined the wrists he held. Burnt. Like the rest of him. "I'm hurting you."

                "No."

                "I am. I just want to talk. If I let you go, will you talk to me?"

                "I'm not letting you drag me back there, if that's what you mean. You can fucking forget it."

                "Very well," he assented, unwilling to hurt him any more. He was obviously in terrible pain from using his power so many times in such quick succession. "I won't drag you back there. I won't touch you. Just tell me you won't run."

                "Like you'd believe me."

                "I said I don't want to hurt you."

                A pause, where the boy stopped squirming. 

                "You can't outrun me, and you can't beat me. Just talk to me."

                "Fuck it. Alright, fine. I won't run, ok?"

                "I hope you're not lying," Jean-Paul let him go now, watched him reel away and shake his wrists, as if he'd been writing too much. "If I find out you're a liar, I _will_ drag you back there."

                The boy was looking down at his arms now, but his eyes moved upward to catch Northstar's. "I'm a lot of things, maybe. But I'm not a liar."

                He saw the light on his watch go off, knew it was Nightcrawler asking if things were under control. He hit the button he knew would send back the affirmative, realizing that his silence would mean that he was otherwise occupied, and the affirmative answer would mean things were, indeed, under control.

                And now, what to do with the boy? There he was, staring at him as if he would eat his very soul given the chance, and Northstar couldn't touch him, or he risked causing even more damage to his skin. _Mon dieu, he couldn't help but feel his stomach drop, an ache in his chest for the boy. __His skin. He couldn't even imagine what it felt like. The pain he must live with, every day. To even be wearing clothes._

                "I'm glad you brought that up, _mon ami," he knew he sounded perfectly casual. Flippant even. He was an excellent actor. "Who, exactly, are you, and what were you and  your friend doing to those children? Some of them were not exactly in mint condition, non?"_

                "The fuck are you, French or something?" 

                **"Québécois."**

                "Huh?"

                "Forget about it. I'm Canadian," funny how it almost hurt to say.

                "Explains a lot about your manners."

                "You're the one who attacked me," Northstar reminded him. 

                "What did you want to know again, pretty boy?"

                "Your name?"

                "I told you," the boy sneered at him, "Bullet Time. You're Northstar, I'm Bullet Time, and that's good enough for me."

                For just a moment, he considered his "adversary." Just a kid, but almost a man. Probably seventeen, eighteen at the oldest. Scared. A young mutant, probably an outcast. And in pain.

                "Jean-Paul," he said quietly.

                "What?"

                "My name," he repeated, "is Jean-Paul."

                The teen stood straight now, and looked him properly in the eye. "I'm Rick."

                Jean-Paul nodded. "Want to tell me what you and your friend were playing at in that warehouse, Rick?"

                The boy flared his nostrils, dangerously. But now that he'd looked him in the eye, shoulders squared back, Northstar could see that the tough guy game was just an act. This was an intelligent, witty boy. And he had no idea how to keep his act going any longer. He was, in short, defeated. "We were just trying to show them that they couldn't fuck with us anymore."

                "The kids?" he prompted, when the information stopped flowing. "They did something to you?

                "Every day of my life," the youth muttered, his eyes now falling to the ground. "It's not exactly the most PC place, this town. Mutants are something that happen to everyone else, not to people you know, right? And everyone knows everyone in this town, no way to keep a secret. Me and Jake, we're the only two in our class, at least, that people have found out about."

                "And they made fun of you?"

                Bright green eyes snapped back up to lock with Northstar's cold blue ones now. "What the fuck do you think? Look at me, for god's sake."

                "I am," he said, truthfully. "It burns you, when you move that quickly. There might be a way—"

                "There is no way," the boy spat at him, his words full of venom. "We've been to every doctor, no one knows how to make it stop. Not unless I stop using it."

                "And you can't."

                "Could you?" Serious now, again with the tough front falling away, the soul stripping green eyes latching on to his. 

                "No."

                "But it doesn't burn you. Look at you. The poster boy for happy mutants. Pretty and perfect in spandex, flying like you're fucking Superman. But you can move like me. And you never have to stop. And it doesn't burn you." The skin under the burns was turning red now, the eyes were pooling up with water. He was getting angry. 

                He'd probably been angry for years, of course. He'd just never had someone to take it out on before. "I know people who can help. If you come with me—"

                "Fuck you!" a flash of metal now, a butterfly knife suddenly in his scarred hands, shaking. "I told you I wasn't going back there. You'll catch me, but not before I plant this in your side."

                "Rick… I don't think you want to hurt me any more than I want to hurt you…," Northstar wondered if he really sounded soothing, sedate, like he did in his head. He held up his hands, slowly, in the hope that the other mutant would see that he was not about to make a move. His mind moved fast now, trying to think of a way to rush the boy, fly him to the jet, get him sedated. His former strategy of "talk to the child" did not seen to be working, at the moment.

                The boy just looked at him. "No… no I guess I don't." and he suddenly put the point of the knife into his own forearm, halfway down, on the soft side. "But I'll fucking kill myself before I let you take me back there."


	5. Interlude: Justified

Interlude: Justified

_roses__ in the hospital stub cigarettes out on my arm. roses in the hospital want to feel something of value. roses in the hospital nothing really makes me happy. roses in the hospital heroin is just too trendy. all we wanted was a home now we're so strung out we wanna own. like a leaf in the autumn breeze, like a flood in january. we don't want your fucking love._

-roses in the hospital

_                I know people think that I am an angry young man. _

_                Sometimes, I think about what they did to her, to Jeanne-Marie. And it still makes me angry. A thirteen year old girl, tortured, repressed, riddled with guilt and a complete lack of self-worth. I was not there; I did not even know I had a sister at the time. But she stood there, alone, in the dark, ready to die, on the roof of Madame DuPont's School for Girls. And she jumped._

_                She did not know why she flew rather than falling to her death. When she went looking for answers from the Soeur, she found nothing but hate, disbelief. They beat her. They starved her. They sent her to do penance for her "blasphemy." _

_                That was the beginning of her disease, my sister. Not the beginning of her troubles, non. But the beginning of the all too real split-personality disorder that would rule her life from then on._

_                I could have been more understanding at times, perhaps. I could have been less judgmental, particularly knowing of her past with the Sisters. And truly, I have apologized to her for my own transgressions. _

_                It does not make them disappear. But it somehow makes me feel justified in blaming the Sisters, and then Department H, for Jeanne-Marie. And for __Aurora_.__

_                And sometimes, I think about how angry I was, before Alpha Flight. Oh, I know what you're thinking. "Jean-Paul, you're angry now!"_

_                Yes, sometimes. _

_                But once upon a time, I was a true _sepratiste. _Unwilling to sit back and do nothing to aid my country-folk, my fellow Québécois_,_ I joined Le Front de Liberation du Quebec__. Now, I am not proud of that association. I did not realize that the movement was not purely political. I was naïve, and discovered too late that I had made the wrong decision. _

_                Make no mistake, I still believe in the ideals I upheld then. But I was mistaken to think that the FLQ was the answer to our hopes. And I was mistaken to associate myself with them. It has caused me much grief since. _

_                After childhood, things become cloudy. Perhaps some look at me, and they think I have it all. Money, looks, intelligence. A stare that can make a man's knees weak from across the room. Yes, the boy who tried to steal from Raymonde Belmonde on the street one day has done well for himself. _

_                But the past remains. My past. Her past. _

_                Sometimes, I think there is much that I would change. Foolish decisions and foolish pride. But foolish or no, the choices were still mine. _

_                I suppose I am still an angry young man. I know it's true when I think of Jeanne-Marie. When I think of the times my loved ones, so few remaining, have been threatened. When I think of the prejudices have faced, no matter what my chosen career, no matter where I found myself. And, to be perfectly honest with you, I don't feel the need to justify it. _

_                I have my reasons for being who I am. I have loved and lost and lived like everyone else. I have made my own choices, taken my own chances. _

_                And if you don't like me, you're welcome to, as they say, fuck off._

_                I could not ask someone else to accept me, after all, if I could not even accept myself._


	6. Part 3: Beautiful

Part 3: Beautiful

_beauty, she poisons unfaithful all, stifled, her touch is leprous and pale, the less she gives, the more you need her, no thoughts to forget when we were children_

-she is suffering

                _Calvasse… not again._

                Jean-Paul stood, frozen, only for a split second. Weighing, judging. The boy's eyes—sincere, glowing. Fearless. The point of the flashing blade sunk into his scarred forearm. A dark pool welled up, a drop slid, viscous, shining dark in the moonlight, over the mutilated skin and splashed onto the hard packed ground. All he had to do was drag the blade a few inches away from him, and he would open up that crucial vein, sever his artery. 

                S'_il vous plait…  not again._

                "Stop, please," he said quietly, slowly. Heart in his throat.

                Thousands of teenagers a day threatened to do what this boy was threatening. A cry for help, they called it, the "experts."

                But he could see this boy's—no, this young man's—eyes. He was not afraid. Death would be better than returning to that world, the world of those other children, of people who could not understand. 

                "I would not ask you to return to them. I understand."

                The young man's scarred face twisted up. Hate. Anger. But still not a trace of fear. "How could _you_ understand? Did you spend your childhood being tormented for being a _geek? When your mutation started to show, did it leave you disfigured? Did the way you __look brand you, let everyone know what a freak you are? Did you grow up in East Butt-Fuck West Virginia, where the color of your __skin can still change what people think about you, let alone being a mutant?!" He was yelling by the end, hand shaking as it held the knife. Another drop of blood hit the earth. _

                He was Northstar, the superhero. 

                And once again, it wouldn't help him.

                "My problems are not the same as yours, perhaps. But that does not mean I can't understand." If only his heart would return to his chest, get the hell out of his throat. That might make this easier. So much easier. 

                Rick, Bullet Time, remained silent. But he made no move to take the knife from his arm. He just stood there, hateful. Shaking. Breathing.

                "Do you have a family, Rick?"

                He nodded, quickly.

                "I had a family. Twice. And I lost them both, when I was too young to know better. And then, the man who took me in, raised me… I watched him murdered. I have a sister, whom I love. If I saw her today, I would not be surprised if she tried to kill me." The blackness. The hole in his chest. Threatening. Good god, but it hurt. "What about friends? Jake, he is your friend?"

                Again, he nodded.

                "You are lucky. I have lived in a house for months now, with other mutants. Do you know, until today, I would not have counted one of them among my friends?"

                "Sound like a bunch of dickheads," the youth was calming down now, but the pressure on the knife did not let up. 

                "Non. In fact, I am the one who is… difficult. What do you want to do Rick? With your life? With your gifts?"

                Silence. He just stared. Intense.

                "I am a teacher, at a school for young mutants. This, with the spandex and the flight goggles, it's not my day job. And every day, I know that the sideways glances I get, the whispers I hear behind me in the hall, are all because of one little difference. We are all mutants there, yes. But I am different, because I am gay. My teammates shy away from my touch, my enemies have one more reason to hate me. And believe me, they take every reason they can get. The world would rather sweep people like me, different in so many ways from what it finds "acceptable," under the carpet and forget that we exist."

                Deep breath.

                He hadn't realized, until that moment, how much it still bothered him. He was Jean-Paul Beaubier. Proud. Fearless. 

                And, apparently, pissed off.

                "But I don't run from it," he continued now. "I don't run from my powers, my past, or who I am. I face them down, make them mine. And all I'm offering you here, when I ask you to come with me, is the chance to do the same."

                A pause, as the two mutants simply looked at each other. One bald, scarred, burnt, and bleeding. Clothes torn and ragged from use of his powers. Eyes burning and unafraid. The other strong, arrogant, beautiful and sharp. Wearing a costume that couldn't help him rescue his charge this time. A costume that sometimes didn't fit so well.

                "What do you teach?" Rick asked, suddenly dropping both hands to his sides. 

                Northstar realized with a bit of a start that he had been holding his breath. "Business. Economics."

                "To mutants?"

                "Mutants are just people. We have to make a living, oui?"

                "Swear to me that I don't have to go back."

                "I swear," he nodded solemnly, swearing to himself that he would make it so, no matter what. "You can come with us, if you like. We'll have to talk to your parents—"

                "They'll be glad. They don't… blame me for what I am."

                A sound above them now, familiar. He looked down at his watch, saw it blinking yellow. He should have noticed before. "I believe our ride is here," he looked up, through the clear circle between the treetops, showing the night sky.

                A small clattering as the butterfly knife fell to the ground.

                Jean-Paul looked back at the young man now, and saw that he was covering his face. Broad shoulders shook a little, a shadowed figure in the moonlight. Scars, burns ripped across the landscape of his hands, his arms. Laughing or crying, it was hard to say. Either way, it would mean the same thing.

                The X-Man fought an urge to put an arm around the younger man. It would only hurt him more, after all.

                But he had a feeling that, if not for that fact, the young mutant would not shy away from his touch.

                "They are not bad children," Kurt was perched in a chair in the Professor's office now, explaining what had happened. "They simply made a bad decision."

            "Still," Xavier shook his head, with his typical infuriating calmness, "they could be dangerous. Holding a group of teenagers hostage, assaulting them. It's hardly the way to make a point. It shows a level of instability—"

                "_Excusez-moi_, Professor, but have you not spent your life working with children?" Northstar could listen to this no more. He'd been pacing back and forth like a caged tiger before the window, utterly incensed. Xavier's decision to treat the boys as if they were no more than common criminals was, simply, unacceptable. "You know better than most how cruel they can be. It never would have happened if someone in that ridiculous little town had made an effort to stop what was happening in that school. Both boys were beaten repeatedly for nothing, for watching Star Trek, since they were ten years old. And then they, already outcasts, develop mutant powers. They are exposed, called names, tortured. Who can blame them?" 

                Maddening. The Professor only raised an eyebrow. "I understand that you sympathize with them, Northstar, and I appreciate that you're willing to be so personally involved. I do not suggest that we shouldn't offer them all the help we can. Indeed, I'm glad they're here, and feel confident that we _can_ help. But their violent pasts—"

                "What about my past?" He burst in again. "The FLQ? Cell Combatterre? Does it make me a dangerous man?" Glad that he was willing to be personally involved! What utter crap!

                "You were pardoned by the Canadian government," Xavier reminded him, unnecessarily, eyebrow still arched. "You were not involved in any violent activities. In fact, you saved—"

                "I remember what I did," he interrupted frostily. 

                "I believe the point Jean-Paul wishes to make ," Kurt cut into the conversation, and, blessedly, the tension, "is that extreme unfairness and oppression can drive otherwise perfectly rational people to extreme actions, with time."

                Silently, Jean-Paul thanked his teammate. But his eyes never left Xavier's. "It should not be such an alien concept to you, after all."

                A pause. Then, slowly, the Professor nodded. "I will keep a close eye on empathic activity. Kurt, you may remove the boy's inhibitor. Northstar, take the other boy to Henry in the morning, for analysis. Annie will take care of his burns tonight."

                "I will see that he's moved out of the holding cell."

                "That will be all," was the Professor's only answer. "Good night, and good work."

                "A moment, Monsieur Beaubier?"

                If it had been anyone else… he would have killed them.

                But seeing that it was Kurt, he turned and stopped his progress toward the sweet sanctuary of his room. "Oui?"

                "Forgive me. I know it has been a long day for both of us, but…" He didn't need to finish the sentence. It was obvious from the look on his face. No swashbuckler there tonight. 

                "Non, forgive _me_. I lost my temper with the Professor." He was not sorry for what he'd said to Xavier, but he _was_ sorry that Kurt had been forced to get in the middle of it. "I can count myself lucky that you were there to intervene, with reason. I shouldn't be surprised, the Professor must look after his interests, of course," He couldn't hold back the sarcasm now. But he didn't care. 

                Kurt, apparently, was not bothered either. "What happened? With the boy, I mean?"

                They had not had a chance to speak without the boys there, except for the brief trip from the infirmary to the Professor's office. "He threatened to kill himself if I tried to bring him back to the warehouse. Or anywhere near the town, for that matter." His voice sounded flat, cold. Even inside his head.

                Kurt nodded, "I see. And you…?"

                "I'm… well," he sighed, feeling the tension in his body, the way his eyes were drooping. Long day indeed. "I've just… I've not had the best luck with children, in my life. He made me think."

                "You were right to stand up to the Professor. It showed great integrity. But, yes, I see what you mean. Too much thought…," the other man trailed off, leaving it open.

                But Northstar knew where he was going. He'd heard him say it only hours ago, before the whole debacle. "Indeed." 

                He wanted to say more, once again. But he could not. 

                With a slight smile, Nightcrawler placed a hand on his teammate's shoulder, and steered him down the hallway again. "The life of a superhero, nein?"

                Jean-Paul had his doubts. 

                But they did not keep him awake long.


	7. Epilogue: Company

Epilogue: Company

_but__ i still love the smile on your face. but i still love the sense of this place. i'm so happy i know i can never leave. even though my, my brain it fucking bleeds._

-wattsville blues

_                Of course, I did as the Professor asked the next day. Bright and early, I took Rick to see Hank, to have blood drawn, tests run, and his skin poked and prodded every way possible. He endured it like a man, so I'm told. He informed me that he did not need me to stay with him. _

_                I didn't insult him by insinuating otherwise. _

_                I spent most of the day wandering, since it was the weekend. Thinking, instead of hiding in my papers and book, instead of losing myself in my obsession with money. Perhaps you did not think there was more to me than that. But, as it turns out, there is. And I was thinking far too much, in all probability. It does indeed, as Kurt implied, make one rather morose. But I suppose my usual state of unfriendliness makes it appear quite normal, to the casual observer. And god knows, there is no one here who is more than that to me. _

_                I spoke with Paige, in the gardens, discussed what had happened with her. She's a good girl, if rather ridiculous over __Warren__. Not that the man isn't a vision, but I fail to see the attraction. Perhaps I've still not forgiven him for that whole irresponsible businessman issue. The idea of my money funding anti-mutant werewolves, or whatever those were exactly, still makes my stomach turn. _

_                I managed to avoid Stacy, with a bit of help from my speed. Something about her, after seeing her and Paige cat fight the way they did… makes me uneasy. Perhaps it is my history with women who can manipulate pheromones, but I find it difficult to relax around her. Not that I think she's going to convince me I'm in love with her, and take me to some faraway Caribbean paradise, mind you. _

_                Then again, she might just be catty enough to try it. If she would let Kurt be for long enough to pull it off._

_                But Bobby caught my attention, sitting on the front step. He didn't even notice me until I sat down next to him. Leaving some distance between us, of course. I'm not certain what compelled me to torture myself. I doubt that we can ever really even be friends. But I was not in a mood to deny myself, perhaps. _

_                "Hear you had a rough night," he didn't even look up, but he didn't seem upset that I'd joined him._

_                "It was… difficult," I agreed. I did not particularly want to talk about it. But he looked so very alone, sitting there, hunched over on the step. "Did you and Warren enjoy yourselves?"_

_                He only shrugged, "I guess. Things will never be the way they were."_

_                Perhaps it should have struck me as out of the blue, this statement. But for some reason, it didn't. It was the recurring theme of the week, it seemed. Regrets. "No. They never are."_

_                And there we sat. Next to each other, but perfectly, utterly, alone. _

_                And we stayed like that, each staring at his own feet, for the better part of fifteen minutes. _

_                "Hey, Jean-Paul," he said, as I finally stood to return to the lab and see what progress had been made. _

_                I stopped, and looked down at him. And thought he was beautiful, like that. _

_                Beauty is strange. It's so charmingly subjective. Something is beautiful when it answers something inside you, says the thing you meant to say, but could not manage to articulate. And at that moment, Bobby looked very alone. _

_                "Thanks."_

_                I nodded, "Misery loves company, non?"_

_                His brow furrowed. He looked as if he wanted to say something else. I considered him a moment longer, wondered what it was. Certainly, he had h is problems. Particularly of late. Could it be that he was really so grateful that he wanted to tell me about it, unburden his soul?_

_                But I left. No. He would only be sorry if he did, only make excuses the next day. Perhaps it was selfish of me. Perhaps I was only scared to get closer. Perhaps I'm so used to being alone, that I don't know how to be anything else.  But I went inside. _

_                Back to the business of being an X-man. It's not so bad, really. And at least I know, that if I were doing anything else, it would be dishonest. I do this for Joanne. I do this for Jeanne-Marie . I do this for my teammates, for Peter, for Rick, for all of the people who have ever made me stop and think for a moment. Made me think about my life. And yes, I do this for myself._

_                 Not a terrible ending, for a man who never wanted to be a hero.  _


	8. Author's Note

Author's note

                It's a bit pretentious, but I wanted to explain myself on this one. I had a few things I was trying to accomplish when I set out to write this hyper-dramatic bit of fic, and I wanted to make my reasons for JP worship entirely clear. I put these reasons in an email to Sue, when she was done beta reading for me, and I thought I'd tack them on the end here.

1-Talk about why the hell Jean-Paul would be bothered to do what he does. He has, historically never wanted to be a Superhero. What would keep him there? So I looked into his past, found the reasons I could think of, and decided to elaborate, for public consumption. Because I like that. Makes him a sort of... unlikely anti-hero. I can dig it.   
2- Show him as a man who stands up for what he believes in. I've always liked his integrity.   
3- Show that it is, most likely, his own goddamn fault that he's so miserable all the time. (In the story, both Nightcrawler and Iceman make friendly advances, and both times he stops the conversation where it is .)  
4- Talk a little about Aurora, because she is the reason he did anything he did, hero wise, and the source of some serious scarring. I think it's a huge part of his personality, bigger than books and numbers, really. However, she isn't in his life now. So what the hell is he doing?  
5- And, at the end of the day, have him accomplish some small goal that reminds him that he's doing the right thing.

                It is, of course, inherently flawed because not only was I about five years old when most of the Alpha Flight establishment of his character was happening, but also because I am not Québécois, remotely Canadian, male, rich, athletic, a twin, a superhero, or particularly scarred myself. But the point is…

                Northstar is pretty much the fucking man. So bow down.

To answer some people who have been kind enough to review:

The M: I appreciate that you're reading, and am glad you've liked it thus far. The dynamic between Jean-Paul and Kurt has not been explored, as far as I've seen, in Uncanny in the least. They seem like natural friends to me, however, because I can see Kurt being one of the few who would not see him as just _gay. He doesn't strike me as the type to take such things into consideration. Also, his sincerity, sense of humor, and charm could get to anyone. Even someone as tight-assed as our beloved JP. I'm desperate for him to make a friend, really._

DrasticSpaz: Thank you so much for the encouragement. There is no greater compliment, to me, that to tell me that something is written beautifully. It's very kind of you to say so. Thank you. I'm also glad that you liked Bullet. As I said, he isn't my creation, but I was fascinated by his powers and their repercussions. Seemed like just the sort of kid who might remind Jean-Paul of some important things. 

Harry2: I cannot thank you enough for taking the time to look at each chapter so closely. Very cool of you. I appreciate very much that you feel I've managed to make Northstar seem very 3-D with this endeavor—in the end that was the real goal, I think. The big one. And your comment about Rick seeming a bit like a young Nightcrawler was fascinating, I should go and look up the old issues, as I don't remember what he was like then at all. I just know that now, I adore the fuzzy elf for his wit and wisdom. Also appreciated, your commends on Xavier. The man by turns aggravates and relieves me. Your statement, that he ought to get out of the house and see what real life is like, could not be more true. Thank you again for the thoughtful reviews, it means a lot to me. 


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